Brush away
C lo u ds
clinging to
eyelashes that hover
morning mist-like to a
sleeping valley yet
to be touched
by day.
A jumbled geography,
only you know
which is empyreal sky
and which is
a sturdy line of shore.
I want to bury my
wandering fingers
in cool soft dunes.
I anxiously await
sunrise to work its
wondrous
warm ing.
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